


The Bet

by Lazaria



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Deception, F/M, Face Slapping, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Mind Games, Mistaken Identity, Orgasm Control, Power Dynamics, Riding Crops, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 23:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15012173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lazaria/pseuds/Lazaria
Summary: A bet is made. Sadomasochistic hijinks ensue. Who's really in control? You're Irene, but Sherlock doesn't know. A little bit of fun. Enjoy!





	The Bet

\---

“It can be an addiction, you know.”

Mycroft sits behind his desk at the Diogenes Club. It’s close to midnight. A desk lamp tosses long shadows on the carpet, slicing the room into strips of light and darkness. You stand in the gloom. Mycroft winks at you, but he’s talking to his brother, who sits in an armchair at your side, looking very annoyed.

“Sexual control. A desire to dominate. It’s quite the chemical thrill, you’d enjoy it.”

“Sounds dull.”

“Not if you need it.”

Sherlock stares daggers. “I don’t need it.”

“On the contrary, brother mine, you need it more than anybody.” Mycroft cradles his chin in his fingers to hide a smile. “Just look at you, the way you’re sitting there. I can tell she bothers you.”

You glance down at Sherlock’s magnificent head. You’d like to bury your fingers in those curls. There are a lot of things you’d like to do to him -- and you will. That’s why you’re here. Mycroft was only too glad to arrange it. Just the sort of game you both enjoy. Sadists generally respect other sadists, after all. It’s lovely to have the famous detective at your mercy.

“Oh well, Mycroft,” you tease. “Perhaps he doesn’t want it.”

“Oh, he does.” Mycroft leans forward across the desk. “The question is, will he or won’t he?”

“I won’t,” Sherlock snaps. “It’s boring. You’re not going to win this idiotic bet.”

Mycroft rises. Taking his umbrella from a hook on the wall, he paces around the desk and gives you a look. “I don’t believe him, do you?”

“No.”

Mycroft swishes his umbrella over your shoulder and down your curves. It feels quite nice. A pleasurable shiver runs through you. He unhooks your cloak and the cool air hits your naked skin. You’re wearing nothing underneath.

Turning to face Sherlock, you lean against the desk and switch off the lamp. It’s almost dark now. A wash of dusky moonlight filters through the glass. He hasn’t recognized you yet. Yes, you really are that good.

“He’s right, Mycroft. Sex can be boring. But it doesn’t have to be.”

“This one’s got an _appetite_ , brother mine,” says Mycroft, handing you the umbrella. “Careful.”

Sherlock laughs at this. An instant later, you’ve pinned him against the chair with the umbrella pressing against his groin at a well-chosen spot, your face inches from his. A normal man would gasp, move, make a sound. Sherlock is not a normal man. He hardly reacts at all – but you observe the slightest dilation of the pupils, a dead giveaway: you’ve got him.

It’s time to up the stakes. “Five minutes. Alone.”

“Well?”

Sherlock hesitates, which in itself is amazing. You manipulate the umbrella’s pressure with surgical precision. He draws closer, scenting your dyed hair, trying to detect some perfume, shampoo, something to recognize. You give him nothing. You’re scrubbed of anything familiar. You can feel his cheek almost touching yours, and you’re in prime position to whisper something truly filthy into his ear, if you wanted to. But you know his real addiction.

“If you refuse,” you murmur, “then you’ll never find out.”

His eyes hold you without blinking, transfixing you. For a moment you wonder if, even in the dark, he sees.

“Do you surrender?” asks Mycroft.

“I shall have you killed,” Sherlock mutters. “Absolutely executed.”

“You can try,” Mycroft says. “I’m sure I can die happy after this.”

You slip your hand under the detective’s shirt, feeling the warm heat of his skin. He lets you do it. Your quick fingers unbuckle his belt and reach to feel what’s there: huge, rock hard, too big for your hand. He tenses up and leans forward, eyes catlike and predatory. He weighs something and decides.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Mycroft examines his fingernails.

“The bet!” Sherlock bites off the words. “You win the damned bet, Mycroft. Now get out.”

“You’d lost the moment she walked in, as far as I could tell,” Mycroft observes drily. “I’ll collect my winnings later. Oh, and by the way, I brought your toy.”

He takes a riding crop from a cabinet and tosses it to Sherlock.

“Ta,” says Mycroft. To you, he says: “Enjoy yourself, my dear. We’ll meet again.”

Sherlock is on you almost before his brother is out the door. It’s fast. You have no idea how it happens. He reverses your hold and pins you on the chair. Plush upholstery burns your back. A flush of angry pleasure breaks in your gut. You grasp his curls to pull him close, but he grips you by the shoulders and slams you down on Mycroft’s desk, pressing the riding crop across your throat.

“Now.” His eyes are calm and cool. “You’re not going anywhere. So don’t try.”

He’s stronger than he looks. You feel your windpipe tighten as you relax into his command. It’s startling how much you like him like this. On top of you. In total control. Playing you like a violin. A soaking warmth breaks as his long fingers glide downwards and enter between your legs, stroking, pulling. The man knows his anatomy. You’re outmatched here; you won’t last. It’s simple physics. The pleasure rises and falls, and he pulls back, leaving you melted and panting.

His baritone purr warms your ear. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “You always were. This was never Mycroft’s game. It’s my game. I had him buy you for me. You’re my diversion.”

The way he smirks, pale and sharp in the moonlight, almost sends you over the top. He massages your wet cleft, slipping his fingers in and out with delicate precision, careful not to let you come. You close your eyes. You won’t give up the deception just yet, it’s just too delicious. “What about the bet?”

“A pretext. We staged it so you’d let your guard down. Did you really think I’d be so taken with one of Mycroft’s whores? All an act, I assure you. Yet you believed it, because like most people you flatter yourself about your charms and you’re not half as smart as you think you are, which is evident from the situation you now find yourself in.” He pushes four fingers up inside you at once, and smiles when you gasp. “At the mercy of a highly-functioning sociopath.”

With some struggle, you manage to prop yourself against the desk and toss a glare his way. “A sociopath? Prove it.”

“Oh, I _like_ that.” He laughs. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it? Mycroft was right about you.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not boring. Lucky.” He takes the riding crop from your throat and drifts the tip of it down your abdomen. “You might not survive, but that’s the whole fun of this sort of thing, isn’t it? Finding out.”

“Naturally.” You reach inside his open fly and grab the massive hardness inside. “Sex isn’t worth it unless someone might die.”

You feel him throb when you say it. You pull, and he closes his eyes with a low, muffled sound. He slaps you across the cheek. The bright sting pulls a sigh out of you, and you recline back, spreading your legs. He fills you to bursting when he impales you. He’s huge. You can practically feel him in your throat. His pupils are wide and black; anyone but you would be afraid. The desk splinters under your fingernails. He puts a hand over your throat.

“Sherlock,” you moan.

“Quiet.” He traces a finger against your lips. “We’re playing a new game. I won’t let you come unless you beg for it. Understood?”

“I’ll make you beg,” you growl, but he shoves his fingers into your mouth and the last part comes out muffled.

 _“Understood?_ “

His mouth is slightly open; his eyes eager. This is a game you’ve been dying to play.

“Understood,” you say.

He pumps you rhythmically, circling his hips, and releases. The sudden cold makes you gasp. His fingers trail lightly over your nipples and down inside you, pulling in complex suction, making you drip. You close your eyes. You’ve never felt anything like it. The pressure of his mouth and tongue effortlessly bring you close to the peak. You feel it build . . .

But he won’t let you have it. You open your eyes in exhausted disbelief and stare at him, aching.

He examines you. “Well?”

“Finish me,” you breathe. “Dissect me right here. Show me what you really are.”

“No.” He clasps your chin in his hand and tilts it up so you’re eye to eye. “Beg.”

“I will not.”

“On your knees.”

He indicates the floor. You slide down, but not all the way. It’s time to show him that this, too, is a game: one that he doesn’t know he’s playing. It’s time to show him what he really wants.

You run a hand up his thigh and down the length of him, feeling him stiffen. Then you simply let go, walk over to the chair and sit down.

“We’ll see who begs,” you say, in your real voice this time. “Give me that riding crop.”

It’s the way you’re sitting in the chair that does it. He stares at you in the semi-dark, and finally sees.

“Impossible,” he breathes.

You take out the contact lenses and wipe off the deceptive makeup. “Come on. I know what you like. Don’t hold back.”

He pulls you up for a violent kiss. His mouth is hotter than before. He wants it now, and that’s far more dangerous. He bites your lip like an animal. You bite him back hard enough to taste blood. The scarlet’s beautiful against his pale lips; he’s glowing as he’ll never glow for anyone else. His eyes are wild with happiness. You stand back to admire him. He really is gorgeous.

“Irene, but how -- ”

“Shh.” With a single quick motion, you floor him and straddle his chest. He can’t move. You draw a finger across his cheek and feel his whole body shiver. “I’ll tell you how I arranged it -- on one condition.”

You put your hand out. Without a word, he gives you the riding crop. You run its familiar length through your hands.

“You’ll have to beg for it.”

 

In a limousine parked just outside, Mycroft checks his pocketwatch and raises an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he murmurs to himself. “Well-played, Miss Adler. It appears I owe you a hefty sum.”

He nods to an unseen driver, and the car pulls off into the night.

 

 


End file.
